The Bitter End
by Genis Aurion
Summary: [StanKyle, oneshot, dedication fic]. What do you do when you’re at the end? When you’ve lived the best you could, when you’ve sought all the opportunities life has given you... What do you do when you've reached the bitter end?


_As you know, I've been posting many new stories and updating old ones. After reading the works of some of the more profound authors on this site, I've come to the conclusion that I'd like to one day reach their heights. _

_Yes, I admit I am feeling deprived of reviews, especially after having just finished "The Curious Moves." Yes, I would be extremely grateful if you reviewed this story. But this time, I'm merely setting on a quest, the same quest I set forth on the second I began my writing career._

_I've always wanted to write something meaningful. Sometimes I failed, sometimes I succeeded. I just want to accomplish something great, something that will one day cause me to pause. That day, I will turn my head back, and wonder to myself. All those years of writing, did I ever get anything out of it?_

_I hope that one day I can answer yes to that question._

_This particular story I dedicate to several people. First to __**Cjmarie**__, though she will probably never read this. Still, I dedicate this to her, for being my first friend on this site, and for providing me with the basic foundation to become a better writer._

_Second, to __**Brat-Child3**__, because she will always continue to be my idol in the writing career. She's an amazing authoress with an amazing personality, and she provides me a great deal of inspiration, even if she neither reads half of what I write, nor realizes how much she actually helps me._

_And finally, to __**Ren85**__ and __**Phoenix II**__, for being both patient and tolerant with most of my experimental writings, and though I haven't recently heard from the former, I still appreciate both of these amazing people for taking the time to read and review with an honest manner._

_Sadly enough, though, I think that, out of these four, only one will actually end up reading this._

_I hope that the four of you, as well as anyone else reading this, are not disappointed in the story I'm about to introduce, the story you're all about to read. Who knows, this may just be my own bitter end, in reference to my writing career. I just encourage you to try and enjoy this story._

_And with that, I give you:_

**The Bitter End  
**_Zakuyoe_

It feels nice here, under the bridge. The rain's tapping the granite above us, never relenting, as if determined to seep through the concrete and stone that provide us shelter. The river in front of us feels nice, too; the cool water seeps through my toes, soaking the hems of my jeans as it flows past. Further on it catches the rain, carrying it to a more familiar place, somewhere beyond the horizon.

It also feels nice because I'm in his arms, my head leaning against his left shoulder, with his head nuzzling my neck from behind; my shoulders and back, pressed to his chest and snuggling into his warmth; my hands, one on his knee, the other within his own; and my legs, somewhat entwined with his. The free arm he has around me provides me with the security I've always wanted, the comfort I've always sought, and the belonging I never knew I could feel.

"Kyle?" he whispers into my ear, and I perk my head in his direction. "You feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," I reply quietly, closing my eyes. "I never realized how much I liked the outdoors." He gives an acknowledging nod, hanging his head over my shoulder once more. It feels perfect, as if nothing could ever feel more satisfying than this.

"It's nice," he says, and we succumb to silence once more. But neither of us needs words to convey emotion and thought, and the lack of words between us helps establish that serene haven.

The rain seems so far away now, my heartbeat and his calm intake of breath being the only sounds echoing through my ears. The bridge seems to arch miles upon miles above us now, too—in this world, only Stan and I exist.

"Kyle?" he asks, whispering in my ear once more.

"Yeah?"

"What do you do… when you've reached the end?" He looks at me expectantly, but I turn away; I want to argue with him, I want to tell him that this isn't the end, but I merely lean against him and let it go. I've tried before and failed; I don't want to ruin this moment for a petty question like that.

But he nudges the side of my face with his nose, digging himself into the nook of my neck. He wants the answer; I've got no answer.

"The end?"

He mumbles a yes into my skin. "When you've reached the end, when you've lived life the best you could, when you're facing your imminent downfall." He turns my head to face him now, and the look on his face tells me this is no laughing matter. "At that particular moment, what do you do?"

I close my eyes and relish the moment around us. I want to stay like this with him forever. The thundering skies, the pounding downpour, the world around us… I don't want to think about those now. I want our world to be the only world, to be the only place we can find shelter and haven. I want our world to be a place we can do what we're doing now, to sit and watch the rain, the skies, the river—to just let life live, to sit back and watch it, to let the world do what _it_ needed to do, to let us do what _we_ wanted….

"Isn't it obvious?" I tell Stan, weakly.

"Not at all, Ky." He holds me tighter to him, as if he's afraid to lose me to some cruel reality of the world outside our own, and inside I can feel myself clinging on, afraid that this may just _be_ the end….

"What do you do when you've reached the end?" I repeat, and he nods. "The same thing you did at the beginning."

-

I still remember that beginning. So many years have gone since the day, but I still remember the beginning, more clearly than the transparency of a crystal diamond, more vividly than anything Crayola crayons could portray on an empty canvas of the mind.

Most people think of a beginning as a short introduction to the whole, but I don't like to think so. The beginning in this case—_my_ beginning—is much longer, and I think the day it actually began was when I was eighteen, in the winter.

We were walking to Stan's house. That was always the way, since his violent sister was nothing compared to the craziness of the woman I had called my mother. Stan had always had the more lenient parents, the more recent video games to play, so there would never be any debate when we chose his house to hang out at.

Because it was winter, the two of us were dressed in heavy clothing, made durable to last the weather. I remember what he wore, of course: a blue and red toque, the one he always wore; and a brown, leather jacket, equipped with black, leather gloves to cover his hands. I don't really know what I wore anymore, though I'm sure I had on my Stan-approved ushanka, the one I would never part with (back then) for reasons I held as my own.

We had walked slowly, perhaps _too_ slowly, and I remember concentrating on listening for the soft crunches my boots made with the fresh layer of snow. Or, perhaps, I had been fiddling with the gloves I was wearing. I'm sure it was one of the two, but I knew my intention—to keep my attention from Stan.

I loved him back then. At the young age of eighteen, I felt that I had known him long enough, that I had been around him, hung out with him, played with him—all enough to make a final conclusion. I had long accepted the idea of possibly being a homosexual, yet I think I already knew who I wanted to know first. I had made sure many times, so I would not regret my first move of stepping out of the closet. Doing so was hard, having shoved pictures of naked women in seductive poses, right into my face, and when I felt sure to open up to my best friend, Stanley Marsh, I set out for the right moment.

That moment had been _that_ day, the start of the beginning. Yet that didn't mean I was ready for it.

Perhaps, retrospectively speaking, my decision had been a bit premature, but I don't regret it now. I could never regret it, especially when I knew the outcomes of such a long beginning. The faults of my past, the mistakes within that beginning, they all accumulated into the life I had now.

But that was all too far away from the beginning. Where I was at that moment, halfway between and Stan's house, I knew none of that. The only thing I knew was that, within the next few hours, I would take the first step forward toward a future I thought could only exist in my mind.

"You okay, Kyle?" he had asked me the second he had realized I was preoccupying myself with random things.

"I'm fine," I replied, perhaps a little too harshly. "Why do you think I'm not all right?"

"You aren't talking," he muttered, though I'm sure anyone could've figured _that_ out. "You've haven't since we left school. And you're staring at your hands as if you're trying to burn a hole through them."

"I'm fine," I reassured him. Whether he actually believed me was a matter of opinion, and personally I believed he didn't. Still, he didn't probe the idea further, and we continued to walk somewhat in silence. "I'm just cold, that's all."

"Want my scarf?"—and he untied the red material and placed it around my neck. I'm not sure if he ever noticed the blush I'd developed, nor did I ever find out. I had taken the scarf gratefully and, with difficultly, placed it around me.

It was warm to the touch. I still remember that feeling. It was the tantalizing sampler of a delicious food item, a taste to an addictive thing that you couldn't have more of unless you paid the price. That scarf gave me the lingering warmth from Stan's body, and it felt so welcoming. Yet back then, feeling such a comfort only pained me further, and it only encouraged the unreality I knew could never be.

We had my house, which was slightly closer to the school. I wonder if I'll ever be accepted in that household, I wonder if anyone there will accept me once I've gone as far as to tell them my secret. Ike might understand, because he's all understanding and creepily psychological like that. But I doubt my mom will have much fun with the idea; she'd probably start her own Mothers Against Homosexuality group.

"Good afternoon, boys," Stan's mother had called from the kitchen. "Any snacks?"

"No thanks, not now."

"Just put your wet things by the door to dry, and I'll take care of the rest." After setting our wet boots by the door, and our wet jackets on the coat hanger, we proceeded upstairs into his room, and he closed the door behind him as I propped myself against the wall, on his bed.

I was still wearing his scarf.

We did stuff after that. Nothing remotely important, really, but I think we surfed the internet on his computer, did some homework, and had a miniature pillow fight. The latter of the three had turned into a wrestling match, and I know I would've won if it hadn't been for my preoccupation.

"Get off me," I had muttered weakly, under Stan's victorious pin.

"Sore loser," he said with the silliest grin. But it was no longer fun and games; it _had_ been, back when we started. But the position we were in—face down in his bed, his shoulders pinning mine to the bed, his body so close to mine—it had all sparked a series of explosives in my head. I could feel his warmth, his voice tickling the tips of my ears, and I could envision the image in my mind, the compromising position I longed to be real.

"Get off." Tears. Tears unseen by him, but went unmissed by my sense of taste. They were fragile, tears, salty, falling effortlessly down my cheek, soaking the mattress beneath me, and uncaring of my desire to _not_ cry.

"You admit I win, then?" he challenged, but he _still_ hadn't noticed the quavering in my voice.

"Get _off_!" and with all I could, I pushed off the bed and rolled, Stan tumbling off me, and onto the floor. He stared at me incredulously, but that face changed to that of compassion, especially after he realized the condition I had been in. I stared into the blues of his eyes, only for several moments, before closing them and placing myself against his wall once more.

"Oh… dude, I had no idea…. Did I hurt you or something?" I knew he meant that in the physical sense, but I had nodded anyway. Except, it's the Kyle living on the inside that's been hurt. "You should've told me."

"I'm… sorry." He picked himself up from the floor—I had hurt him too, it had seemed, since he was wincing slightly—and he seated himself next to me, placing an arm around me.

"You can keep that scarf, by the way," he told me, giving the red material a pat from my other side. "You seem to like it a lot."

"Thanks," I had replied, and, perhaps subconsciously, I had brought it closer to myself. Even today, I still have that scarf somewhere….

"So, are you gonna tell me what's wrong, now?—or are you just gonna deny it again?" I sighed, closing my eyes again. There was no point in denying it, not _now_, when he clearly knew I was being bothered by something… and that I was in pain.

"I've got something to tell you," I said slowly, so quietly that he had to ask me to repeat it.

"Anything serious?" he said with a questioning look, and I don't think he was very happy with the nod I gave him. "Dude… it couldn't be that bad, could it?"

"Well…"—and I told him. Very reluctantly, very quietly—but enough for him to have heard me the first time. It felt liberating, yet imprisoning, both at the same time; it felt nice that I had finally told him, yet at the same time it felt excruciating, and I was expecting his arm to come off me at any time, for him to reclaim possession of that scarf….

But it didn't happen.

"Gay?" he said to himself, and I had looked at him with such an intense glare that he hesitated in speaking. "You… sure?"

"Of course I'm fucking sure," I snapped, turning away, eyes closed, and tears rolling down my cheek once more.

"Just asking," he said quietly. "But why does it matter, Kyle? It doesn't bug you any, and I don't really mind it either. If you love another guy, then fuck it—you _love_ another guy. You're still my best friend, either way." His grip on my shoulder tightened, bringing myself to his own, and I couldn't help but to rest a head on his shoulder.

He didn't mind.

"No one else should care but you. It's _your_ live you're living." I nodded, and merely dug my face further into his shoulder. I was soaking his shirt, but I didn't care—and neither did he. I'm not sure anymore whether those soaking tears were of joy of sadness. Maybe both— sadness, in that the rejection would only hurt all the more now; joy, in that Stan had accepted me, in that I was one step closer to the impossible.

I remember what I did the second I had left Stan's presence. I hadn't wanted to leave his side, yet I had to, and so did he. I wanted to savor the warmth that radiated from his skin, I wanted to feel him by my side, never wanting to lose that feeling I might never get again. But I also needed time alone, time for the realization of my situation to set in.

When his mother had called him downstairs to set the table for dinner, I took the opportunity to hightail to the bathroom, locking myself in as I collapsed to the floor.

"I can't like him… I can't _love_ him. He's a boy… I'm a boy… there's no way… no way…."

Tears fell once more; I wonder if I ever ran out of tears that night. I had reconciled with myself before the event, making sure I was truly homosexual, yet… it never occurred to me how much more that'd mean. I wanted Stan, I really did, but there was nothing I could do now. A part of me still loathed the idea, telling me to follow the standards my parents had taught me to follow, and a whole other part wanted me to abandon the homosexual tendencies, all for the sake of keeping in good terms with Stan.

"You don't like him," I tried convincing myself, but with each time I said it, only more tears fell. "You don't like him, you can't like him, you _won't_ like him…."

But I didn't listen to myself. I'm glad I didn't listen. But then, it seemed more of a life-or-death situation, a choice that had taken so much out of me, a decision that seemed to mark the path of my life, the path that might just lead me to the bitter tongues of hell, of doom, of despair.

I gambled that risk, though, for the possibility of being with Stan. I had conceived the idea that being with Stan would efface those pains, maybe steer me off that doomed path. I don't know if it's happened yet, but I like to think that gamble had been worth it.

So, after emerging from that bathroom, I had resolved to tell Stan the other half of my secret.

I was book-smart, perhaps, but I wasn't knowledgeable in things like these. I knew Ike wasn't, either. So I consulted the only person I knew who could help me.

"Sup, Kyle?" Kenny greeted me, extending his hand for a handshake; I merely shook it, though. "What's going on?"

"Can I… can I come in?" He had glanced nervously inside his house—his family wasn't exactly the most pleasant of people—but in the end he nodded, and I stepped inside his house.

Once we had entered his room, he shut it tight. "Sup?"

"I've got a few things I need help with," I told him, and he nodded.

"Shoot."

"It's a long story," I explained, and he answered by telling me to say only the important stuff, only the things he needed to know if I wanted him to help me. "I… like one of my good friends, and I'm not sure how to tell hi—her."

"Him," said Kenny, and I remember being quite shocked he could figure out my secret so easily. Of course, I had been the one to slip up, but… Stan never usually caught those mistakes. "And if what I'm thinking's right, you're talking about Stan."

"…yeah." I looked away, over his shoulder, and to the slightly broken mirror behind him. Even from there, I remembered seeing the bags under my eyes, the barely parted eyes, the disheveled hair (even _if_ my hair was naturally curly), and it suddenly occurred to me exactly how many nights I had lost sleep over this.

"You think I can help you?" Kenny asked me incredulously. "How would I be any help? I'm not gay… I've never liked a guy before."

"You've liked girls before," I reasoned, "and you sad you've asked girls on dates before."

"You want to ask Stan on a date? You only said something about telling him you liked him."

"Well, no… er, yeah, I guess." Interestingly enough, I think consulting Kenny actually ended up making me even more confused. "Come on, Kenny… you know you want to help me."

"Maybe… under one condition, though," he said, a smirk on his face, and for a second I had feared the worst. "Blow me."

"Blow yo—what?" But he had entered a fit of laughter, pointing at me as he doubled over, and I knew that I looked quite serious in my reaction to his joke. I didn't need that mirror to tell me so.

"I want to help you," Kenny said, "though I'm not sure… it might be different asking a guy."

"It shouldn't be much different!" I protested. "The only difference is the gender. But don't you know Stan well enough to have some sort of idea?"

"I guess," he said. "But guys don't normally get asked on dates, Kyle. They usually do the asking, themselves."

I remember the disappointment that had set in within me. Would there be any hope, then?—the odds were more than against me now. The chances of me succeeding now were slim, and part of me wanted to give up trying… but I couldn't. I had already resolved not to.

"I really want to help you, Kyle," he said solemnly, "but I don't think I can. This is something you need to do on your own. I'm sorry…."

"It's fine."

But really, as I left his house with barely a goodbye, I felt like it wasn't, I felt that if even _Kenny_ couldn't help me, no one could.

I felt destined to traverse that path to hell's fires.

-

That definitely wasn't the end of the beginning, though. I like to think of this as the first page of the first chapter, of that beginning. I like to think the beginning's hardly started.

There had been at least a month between that moment in Stan's room, and the moment I'd actually tell him the rest. Within that time I had been marshalling my thoughts, gathering myself the courage I needed, getting the willpower to actually focus on other things, away from Stan, away from the friendship I might soon break. There were piles of homework I still needed done, lists of chores my mom wanted me to do, and wallowing in my bedroom wouldn't solve anything.

The day I did tell him, we were at Stark's Pond.

"…Kenny would've died, and Cartman's too fat," Stan had been telling me, giving me one of the best smiles I'd ever seen him wear. "So… you don't mind, do you?"

"No… not at all." Admittedly it made me feel special, to be taken to Stark's Pond with Stan alone, away from everyone else. I could feel the red rising in my cheeks at thought, and I was glad Stan's red scarf was concealing them from him; it wasn't a date, it _definitely_ wasn't a date. But I wanted to think of it as one, perhaps because I thought I'd never have that chance a second time.

"Cheer up a little, Kyle!" he said to me, and he playfully gave me a light shove. "Smile for once, will you?"

"I dunno," I mumbled, tightening the scarf around my neck and face. "I guess I could try, maybe."

I wonder if Stan ever knew. I wonder if he ever made the connection, if he ever figured anything out before I told him myself. After realizing I was gay, I wonder… did he ever realize he was the one I wanted?

"Tell you what," he said cheerily. "I'll buy you ice cream. My treat."

"No, it's okay, I've got—" but he didn't listen to me, only dragging me by the arm to the ice cream truck by the road.

"Can I help you, boys?"

"Drumstick, for me, and a… what'd you want Kyle?"

"Er, uh… Klondike bar, I guess." Stan nodded, and the man had quickly gone to get the requested food items. "Stan, don't, I have money, I can pa—"

"Thank you, sir," said Stan, and he left the money on the counter. I opened my mouth to argue, to protest, but the foolish smile he gave me seemed to overpower that desire. I decided to let it go, just this once, in fear of ruining the moment.

We walked around the pond, watching little kids as they skated on the frozen ice, about half of them falling with a _thud_ against the ice every two minutes or so. Stan was watching them; so was I. Except I don't think he envied them as I did; I don't think he envied their innocence, their young age, their carefree lives they lived….

"Why don't you smile anymore?" Stan had said suddenly, and I had immediately peeled myself away from the lake.

"What?"

Stan repeated himself. "I haven't seen you smile in a while, Kyle…. It's not a bad thing, you know." He smiled at me again, perhaps for emphasis, but I couldn't help but to stare at how nice it looked on him….

I raised my own fingers to the corners of my lips and forced them upward.

"A real smile," Stan said, shoving me lightly again. "Cartman will never know, Kyle, if that's what you're worried about."—Stan had always had this presumption that I didn't want to reveal my true self to him, or that I only let him see the part of me I wanted him to see. And I guess while, back then, I had probably protested that assumption, now I could somewhat see how that could be true.

"I don't want to smile," I said glumly, looking away. "I don't really feel like it."

"What, did you turn emo on me or something?—trust me, dude, I think being emo is overrated."

"And you would know."—though, I wasn't exactly sure if that was supposed to be an insult or a lighthearted joke….

Stan shrugged. "At least you have some humor, I guess."

I'm not sure anymore how long we stayed there. We walked the perimeter of the pond, paced quite slowly compared to the average walking pace, and we ate our ice creams just as slowly. The same question flickered through my mind as we walked, continuously asking me if I would ever confess to Stan my feelings.

I said nothing when he offered to take me home, and that walk home had too been silent.

It was only when we had been on my porch when I had dared to venture into the black hole ahead of me.

"Get some rest," he told me, giving me a pat on the back. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Stan…?" My voice had sounded desperate, as if wanting to hastily say something I had been meaning to say for quite a while. He turned on the spot, smiling at me once again, and he crossed his arms as he gave me his attention. "I have something… to tell you."

This time, unlike the last time, he said nothing. Perhaps it was because the last time I had said that, he hadn't been expecting what I would actually tell him. And maybe, at that moment, he remained silent because he already knew, and that's what I had feared. Yet I still persisted, assembling whatever courage I could find to finish this off once and for all.

"I love you."

And I ran inside my house, banging the door shut behind me. I ran past my dad, who seem enraged I had slammed the door yet again; past my mom, who was scolding at me for having not taken off my shoes; and past my brother Ike, who didn't even notice me run past him, though at least he wasn't angry at me.

Had Stan followed me?—at that moment, I didn't want to know. A part of me had been hoping for him to enter the house, to maybe reason with me what I had said, to at least comfort me, if he couldn't reciprocate. But yet, somehow, I almost believed that his not coming at all would be better on my part.

I had locked myself in my room, and I let tears fall again. I never knew until then, how a guy could cry so much in his life, but apparently it was possible. Stan's words ran through my mind, his face, his smile….

"…_did you turn emo on me or something?"_

I had began thinking that maybe becoming emo would be the right thing to do… maybe Stan had had the right idea back then. Maybe if I didn't feel emotion, I could never get hurt, and I'd never have to—

A knock on the door had interrupted my thought process. "Kyle… open up."

Stan.

I wonder what would've happened if I hadn't opened that door. Would I be where I am today? Would things have turned the same, would things have found another way to achieve the same result? If I hadn't opened that door, would I have lost Stan?

Except, I did open the door that day.

"Can I… come inside?" I had nodded weakly, and as he closed the door behind him I threw myself upon my bed, staring at the popcorn ceiling. "Kyle—"

"Can we at least be friends… again?" I refused to look in his direction, even as he came closer. I didn't want false hope; I didn't want to look at his face, to see I could ever have a chance with him, if I, perhaps, had none at all….

He gave no immediate response. I still remember how heavy his footsteps sounded, how the room had been so silent, how each step toward my bed seemed to crescendo, until at last he stood by me, hovering over me.

I wanted to turn away, but I couldn't. His expression seemed sullen, much like he said mine had been. But it pained me to see no smile on his face, the smile I found to be so perfect….

He shook his head. And then, closing my eyes shut, I turned away.

"Kyle…" but I didn't want to hear his voice. He didn't need to talk; he had practically told me already. Hearing an explanation would only make things worse; I didn't want to know what I did wrong, what I had been doing wrong, why I was wrong…. "Kyle, we can't be friends _again_… if we're still friends to begin with."

I gulped and turned to him. "After… what I said…?"

And then, he smiled. And it radiated throughout me, much unlike any of his smiles had done before. I could feel myself warm up, and I couldn't place a finger on what exactly this feeling was; I found the energy to sit up, to look at him as he sat beside me, to stare into the sea of blue that pierced my own gaze, to forget about most things around me….

I'm not sure why I felt so happy with that smile. It was the same, perfect smile, yet it had created such a difference. Maybe it's because at that very moment I had needed that smile more than I ever had before. Maybe it had been the reassurance that I had been searching for all this time and that things could still be better, even if my name was on the last train to Hell….

"I said you'd always be my best friend, didn't?" he said, and he brought his arm around me. "But…."

"But?"

He grinned. "Do you think you could… you know… smile?"

"Why?"

"I don't like seeing you like this," he said quietly, taking his curled index finger and wiping the drying tears off my right cheek. "You've been so sad lately, so pained, and it hurts me to see you like this, maybe just as much as it hurt you."

"Why did it hurt you?" I had asked, curiously. "You said so yourself. Others shouldn't care. It's my life, and I'm the one living it."

"Because… I love you too, Kyle. And I care about you, and _that's_ why it hurts me." I don't think I had properly heard the latter part of his sentence; for all I know, he could've cursed at me, and I wouldn't have known. My mind was clinging so joyfully, so greedily, upon the confession he himself had made too, and at that moment nothing else had mattered, only the impossible I had actually managed to achieve.

It might've been too perfect. But I really didn't care then. And I definitely don't, now.

"So," began Stan, bringing me closer to him. "A smile?"

And I gave him one. And he smiled back, and the beginning was drawing closer to the close.

-

If the beginning had an epilogue, this would be it.

I don't think a month had even past since that day in my room. We were together now, smiles on both of our faces, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, and we were looking onward at the small river below us. We were on a stone bridge, a bridge not meant for cars, but for pedestrians, lonesome people, couples, groups, and anyone else who needed to find calm in the scenery, to find a haven from the outside world.

We were in that haven now. The river gleamed with the early sunlight, the sun just rising in front of us, its yellow and orange pastels painting the vast sky—a work of art. The sun itself seemed happy, allowing its brilliant rays to slowly penetrate the night's darkness around us, and as we marveled at the horizon Stan squeezed my hand tightly.

"Stan…" I whispered to him, but he said nothing. "Stan?"

"Yeah?"

"You really sure you… I mean, I wouldn't… I wouldn't want it, but…. You sure you really want this?"

He had looked at me seriously, his face with concern. "Of course I want this, Kyle."

"But I mean…. The world isn't exactly the happiest place around. I… wouldn't want to bring you down with me."

The face he had given me then was obscure; it seemed a mix of both confusion and incredibility. Yet his voice remained calm when he answered, which had allowed me to relax slightly at my boldness to ask him such a question. "You're not bringing me down, Kyle."

"So you aren't just doing this because you didn't want me hurt?"

He gaped, turning my face to his. I think he felt some sort of betrayal, some sort of shock, perhaps mystified that I had even thought of the idea. "Kyle… of course not. I don't like seeing you hurt, no, but… I really do care for you, dude. I really… I really love you."

He sounded quite sappy at that moment, but I couldn't have cared less. It was all the assurance I needed.

"You think we'll ever see this sight again?" I asked him, my diploma still in hand. "You think after college, after life has continued, you think we'll ever remember this place?"

"We will," Stan assured me, and he took me into a hug. "I know we will."

-

What do you do when you're at the end? When you've lived the best you could, when you've sought all the opportunities life has given you; what do you do? The decisions and choices you've made all conspire your down fall, biting at your feels like piranhas not fed. You've contemplated life far beyond you've ever needed to. You've allowed grief and anguish and worry and anxiety to occupy your mind, to consume you. At that moment, what do you do?

You've thought about it before, though never more than you do now. But why would you have?—life is so much more enjoyable in your fifties, forties, thirties…. Why then, in the youth of your life, in the years you spent complaining of old age, not even thinking about how much of a way you still had left—why then would you worry about the end then, when your death bed was still more than a few milestones away?

And as a teenager, would you ever have thought about it? Those years when you were busied too much, merely wanting to _live_, nothing more, to satisfy self-need, self-desire, to find belonging, to find comfort, to avoid isolation. Would you have thought about it then?—would you have wanted to know what happens at the bitter end?

I have an answer for you. Stan, when you've arrived at the end, whether with or without me, do the same thing you did in the beginning. Live life the way you want to. Keep persisting, never back down. If trouble goes your way, accept it willingly, knowing that you've gone through much worse in your life. If you find yourself in front of your deathbed, step into it, knowing that you've already lived life to the fullest, knowing that no one but you can live your life.

Never fear the end, Stan. I learned that from you. You always told me to look ahead, to not allow things to hurt you, to keep your head raised, to keep smiling, to keep a positive outlook on anything that comes my way. You taught me that. You told me to never look too far ahead, to worry about what was in the future. No, you wanted me to always look at what was in front of me, and only that. If things would go wrong later, you wanted me to deal with it then. Not now.

Maybe the bitter end for you is the same as mine, the same end I warned you about. Maybe I really did bring you down, much as I said I would, even if you told me I wasn't doing so. Maybe your bitter end will be tongues of fire, as mine will be, I'm sure. But even if that's to be the end of the road our decisions have set before us, at least I'll know we'll be there together.

At the end of the road, when I've come to the bitter end, I'll accept it as my end. I'll arrive there with a smile, as you always told me to do, and I'll deal with things the way you would've wanted me to. And I'll always keep in mind that even if it feels like the bitter end, and even if it _looks_ like the bitter end, I _know_ it isn't.

After all. The bitter end is the same as the beginning.

_**Fin.**_

_If you thought I did a decent job, I'd like to know. Please leave a review.**  
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